


Sauna

by alaina_angel



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28753197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alaina_angel/pseuds/alaina_angel
Summary: After the Apocanot, Aziraphale expects to meet Crowley for lunch only to discover he's booked a session in a sauna.  A sauna means sweat, steam, naked bodies.  Crowley seeing him in the Altogether.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Sauna

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. This is my first story for Good Omens and my first posting on AO3. It's also my first writing for oooh probably a decade.

Sauna  
Crowley was lounging as only he could, all loose hips and confidence, by the rotating dessert cabinet at the entrance to the hotel’s restaurant when Aziraphale, slightly out of breath, trotted in.

“’Bout time. What kept you – the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?”

“You didn’t give me much warning, you know. I was just about to sell my Tamerlane and Other Poems by Edgar Allan Poe; worth over £40,000, I’ll have you know.”

“Every time you lie, angel, a puppy-dog dies.”

“Well, alright then.” Aziraphale pouted. “I was just about to avoid selling my Tamerlane and Other Poems by Edgar Allan Poe. The principle’s the same. Stop smirking, you incorrigible imp, and tell me why we’re here.” 

“We need to talk.”

He squirmed as butterflies erupted in his stomach. “T-talk? What, what about?”

“Cabbages and kings, you prat!”

“Oh, I love that poem – ”

“About last night.” Crowley suddenly reversed their positions and pressed him forcefully against the dessert counter. Accepting the other’s breathy little whimper as permission, he nuzzled at his ear, dropping his voice to a seductive growl. “After the opera – and by the way, horned helmets – there were love confessions, holding hands, cuddling, the whole soppy, romantic Hallmark thing. I’m fairly certain you were there.”

“It was rather lovely…” He pulled away, however, pedantically straightening his bow tie and looking anywhere than at Crowley’s lips. “Not in front of the desserts, dear.”

“You’re blushing, angel. Already.” Crowley was smirking at him, one hip flung forward, his hands shoved into his pockets. 

“It’s merely hot in here,” he huffed, “and I am wearing considerably more layers than you – if you can call that frivolous ensemble layers. Anyway, I’ll order us a table; Arnaud’s serving so we’ll get our usual table in the corner. That Burgundy Chardonnay you ordered to accompany the sole Grenobloise was top-hole although, I must say, the soufflé was a little disappointing and …”

“Finished?” Crowley interrupted, taking his squirming fingers in his own to spare his already worn waistcoat from further worrying. “We’re not dining.”

“We’re not!” His brows shot up in keenly felt disappointment. “But the oysters…”

“This way, angel.” Crowley didn’t break his stride, his hips swaggering effortlessly and seeing as he still had hold of the other’s hand, the angel had no choice but to scurry after him.

After a few minutes of manoeuvring their way through the hotel’s reception, with Crowley hissing at anyone who didn’t get out of their way quickly enough and Aziraphale tutting primly, they arrived at the lift. Once the pompous businessman who had been waiting impatiently suddenly decided to take the stairs, the doors swished closed and the demon pressed the button for the basement. 

“But, but that’s for the spa facilities.”

“I knew reading all those books would come in handy one day. I’ve booked us a session in the sauna.”

“A session? A sauna? A session in a sauna!” A sauna meant steam, sweat, naked bodies. Oh dear. 

“Exclusively and exquisitely just for the two of us. Cost me an arm and a leg, I can tell you.”

Despite the galloping anxiety, Aziraphale bridled at the boast. “Nonsense, you wangled it for free, you dreadful demon.”

“Guilty as charged.” 

“Hang on! Why a spa of all places?” 

“Fancy getting all hot and sweaty.”

***

By the time they arrived at the Olympus Suite (Crowley’s doing, no doubt), Aziraphale’s anxiety had returned full force and he was on the verge of a major dither. The problem was – or at least one of the problems was - he had no idea of spa protocol. Did one wear a towel? Or a bathing suit? Or, Somebody help him, nothing. The image that rose unbidden of him confronting Crowley in the Altogether set his heart hammering. Still there was no way out of it. 

As if reading his thoughts, Crowley stopped at the door and tugged him closer, nuzzling his lips, his jawline and the inch or two of free skin above his bowtie. “It’s not the End of the World, angel,” he murmured.

The words brought a slight smile to his lips and he took a deep steadying breath. If he could meet Satan without flinching – or at least without fainting dead away – surely there was nothing left to fear, least of all from this beautiful being? 

Miraculously, the key card worked first time and he found himself following Crowley into a sophisticated reception room with Corinthian columns and a fresco of Zeus as an eagle seizing Ganymede. Two lounging chairs were drawn up before a table upon which stood a jug of juice (apple, naturally), a bowl of passion fruit and a large vase of yellow irises. With a squeak of appreciation, the angel went over to the flowers, touching their delicate petals and breathing in their subtle fragrance. There had been blooms such as these in the Garden of Eden.

Crowley had thrown his sunglasses casually onto the table to come and stand behind him, his hands snaking round to rest at his hips in a peculiarly protective gesture. “Mean passion. Passion and eternal love.” 

Tenderly he turned the angel round to face him and slid his frock coat off, sending it to a hanger with a snap. He closed the gap between them and brought his hands up to rub up and down the angel’s arms. He let his fingers drift up his waistcoat, up the side of his neck to brush softly like the breath of Heaven against his cheeks, his eyelids, his forehead, his lips. Safe in the circle of his demon’s arms, Aziraphale moved in closer still, initiating their first true kiss. The first press of their lips, chaste and close-mouthed though it was, wrenched a mewl from his throat. Crowley canted his head slightly so he could kiss him better, nipping and licking lightly at the sweet plush lips that opened shyly for him. He sucked on his lower lip before sliding in, a deliciously torturous slide that had every nerve ending Aziraphale had tingling for more. The angel curled his tongue around Crowley’s, the exquisite dance turning his knees to water.

“When did you know, angel?” Crowley whispered into the shell of his ear, breaking the kiss before it got too intense, his canines biting delicately into the lobe. 

“That I loved you? Always, I think. I, I denied it of course.” He gasped as the demon tugged his shirt out of his neatly pressed trousers to run his hands up and down his sides, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “You know: Demon. Angel.” 

“Tell me, Aziraphale.”

“To know it and accept it – ah, don’t stop, dear heart! - that night in St James’s church when you rescued my books. You?”

“Since the Garden. All those bold rescues and you so hot in that Tudor doublet, hell, even in those cutsie-pie pink shoes.”

Aziraphale let his forehead rest against his demon’s. “Now what?” he barely whispered, his fingers clutching at the other’s hand for dear life. 

“Everything, angel. I want it all.”

“I too.”

“Do you even know what that means?”

He blushed but summoned up a prissy scold anyway. “I happen to own a delectable selection of erotic fiction, I’ll have you know.” He dropped eye contact. “However…, if you’re amenable… don’t go too fast for me again. Please?”

Crowley cupped his face to press a kiss almost in benediction against his forehead. “We’re on our own side, Aziraphale and we set our own pace. Together, yeah?” 

The words, softly spoken and tender, gave him the courage to meet the demon’s gaze, finding only love and acceptance there. He took a deep breath. “In which case, dear, would, would you mind awfully taking off your clothes?”

“Waited six thousand years for you to say that.” With the kind of devilish grin that he had perfected and indeed patented centuries ago, Crowley clicked his fingers, his clothes replaced by the tiniest pair of black swimming trunks.

Aziraphale fought a blush as he looked him up and down in exactly the same way as he had in the Bastille. “Dear, you’ll do yourself an injury wearing such constricting attire. I assume they are labelled?”

“Have a label, angel. Versace.” Crowley planted a sloppy but nonetheless fervent kiss against his lips and then with a flick of his devastating hips and perhaps just the tiniest wiggle of his derriere, he made for the sauna. “Time for the hot and the sweaty, angel.”

The door closed behind him. 

***

Aziraphale could feel his control slipping, the panic rising again. He rubbed his waistcoat, wrung his hands and recited Numbers chapter 7 to himself in Hebrew which didn’t help at all. Just a sauna. Just him and Crowley on one of their many meet-ups. Except this was different, this was a brave new world; a new Eden for them alone. He wanted this, God (if she was listening and he wouldn’t put it past her) knew how much. And yet, it was so mind-blowingly frightening to take the next step. 

Crowley’s voice called from the direction of the sauna, making him jump. “Get in here.”

“Rather! Be with you in the tiniest shake of a lamb’s tail.” Since no other option miraculously presented itself, he sighed and got undressed, hanging and folding the rest of his clothes neatly (there was after all no excuse for slovenliness). Finally, he selected the largest towel available and wrapped it round himself, hitched securely under his arms like a sarong.

Aziraphale dithered on the doorstep: the sauna was roasting hot but it was a dry desert heat like the wasteland surrounding the Garden. He had hoped for – prayed for – steam; foggy banks of steam hiding sins and too much flesh. Crowley’s flesh. The demon was currently sprawled on the bench opposite him, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the tiny trunks barely covering much of anything. His skin was golden, like honey, glistening with sweat already.

“No steam. I thought, I thought, there’d be, you know, wafts of …”

Crowley eyed him lazily. “I like dry heat. Warms the cockles.”

“Yes, well, I always liked warm … cockles.” He rolled his own eyes at the unintentional innuendo and glanced round at the room’s décor: Corinthian columns in each corner, flickering candles and a fresco of Olympus with a flight of cupids cavorting against a rosy pink sunrise. There was no barrier or place to hide; the sauna was small and intimate, just two padded benches facing each other across a sunken mound of artistically arranged stones. In the far corner was an ornate statue of Neptune, holding his trident in the air. Neptune was naked and clearly enjoying himself. A lot.

He sat down on the first bench, back straight, hands primly folded in his towelled lap, like he was filing a report to Gabriel, not sitting semi-naked in a sauna opposite a very provocative demon who was laid out before him like a selection of Charbonnel’s finest chocolate truffles. With a hiss of pleasure, Crowley rolled his shoulders and cracked his spine, treating the angel to a show of perky pink nipples, lean ribs and firm abdominals. He clicked his fingers and two champagne flutes appeared. “Dom Perignon.” 

“Scrumptious.” Aziraphale took a long swig, darting anxious glances at his friend who met his gaze unflinching; the demon’s yellow irises were hypnotic like Kaa the snake’s. Crowley brought his hand up to his own lips, sucked the digit in and then drew it out, gliding a glistening wet trail down his chest to his nipple. Still holding the angel’s gaze, he circled the pert nub, pinching it gently before repeating the action with the other. Entranced and more turned on than he had ever been, Aziraphale took another gulp of his miraculously re-filled glass, the alcohol on an empty stomach sending him lightheaded.

“So, the opera last night, Die Walküre.” Crowley’s tone was lazy and indulgent as he continued to toy with his nipples openly. “Our first date and you subject me to heavily bosomed women singing in German.”

“D-date? I thought you’d like the Valkyries. You know, demons.” 

“Still, you were wearing full evening wear. Dinner jacket, top hat. Suited you.” 

The angel wriggled with delight; he was a sucker for a sartorial compliment. “Oh, thank you. Crowley, you’re being very naughty.” 

“My sinful flesh tempting you?” 

He stood up and stretched, giving his captivated angel every opportunity to see pretty much all of his sinful flesh. He crossed the tiny space between them with a few flicks of his hips, a predatory smile on his lips. He sat next to him, nudging his thighs apart so he could slide one of his own between, one hand cupping his face, the other resting at his hips, grounding them. He kissed him forcefully, his tongue wet and demanding, dragging a wanton gasp from his angel.

“Angel, tell me what you want.” 

“Please, dear. I want, I want your mouth…” 

“Where? Show me.”

Panting heavily, his lips swollen from the kisses, Aziraphale arched his back, tugging down his towel to his waist. “Oh, everywhere.” 

Crowley paused to admire the newly bared expanse of pink flesh, taking in the strong pectorals and the soft tummy below, stroking Aziraphale’s shoulders and arms to soothe him. Then he lowered his mouth to suckle gently on Aziraphale’s collar bone, making the angel whimper and mewl with pleasure, knotting his hands in the demon’s mad red hair. The demon hummed deep in his throat, sending pins and needles vibrating through the angel’s body.

“Always so buttoned up. Just look at you. Pink and flushed and – ”

“Soft,” Aziraphale finished, “that’s what Gabriel calls me. I’m afraid he’s right.”

“Screw, Gabriel. You don’t owe him your allegiance or even the fucking time of day– not anymore. You’re free.” He pressed his hands into the giving muscles of his chest before honing in on one pink nipple, laving it generously, his free hand rubbing and pinching its mate until Aziraphale surged helplessly against him. “Like rose petals,” he murmured.

His yellow eyes intense, Crowley brought his hands to the angel’s waist, grasping the towel which Aziraphale had so modestly shrouded himself in, raising his eyes to ask permission. Aziraphale hesitated, his hands digging into Crowley’s shoulders.

“Too fast? Talk to me, angel.”

“Yes. No. Yes.” Shaking his head in irritation at his own incoherence, Aziraphale pushed the demon away slightly. Gathering courage from the undone state of his partner, from his dilated pupils to his ragged breathing, he gave a wriggle of his hips and miracled the towel away with a click of his fingers to reveal a pair of tartan trunks.

Crowley burst out a laugh. “What in hell – or heaven - are you wearing?”

Immediately he covered himself, the mood shattering. This was awful. “Sorry, Crowley. I’m not sure this is a good idea. Perhaps once you’re feeling sufficiently pampered, we could meet up somewhere less sweaty, less naked…”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted, his voice gentled as he caught hold of the angel’s hand. “It’s okay. I like the trunks. Kinda cute – and I will deny strenuously that I said that about tartan.”

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded, fighting the urge to cover his chest with his arm. For something to do, he took another heady slug of his never-ending champagne. He waved the flute in Neptune’s general direction. “Is that, is that, do you think, Neptune or Poseidon?”

Crowley spared the statue a glance. “Same bloke.” He sealed their mouths together in another searing kiss and then returned to his own bench, giving him space. “Tell you one thing though,” he continued with a devilish grin, “he’s not wearing tartan trunks.” 

Aziraphale coloured but Crowley teasing him was familiar territory. “I’ve told you before, tartan is stylish. It wouldn’t hurt you to try a few additions to your own wardrobe. Must you wear black all the time, dear?”

“My main man Satan will be dusting off the ice-skates before I sport a tartan collar again, angel.”

Time passed as they adjusted to this new intimacy between them, precious but fragile. Aziraphale sipped mechanically from his champagne flute, occasionally wriggling as a trickle of sweat ran down his back or toying nervously with the drawstring of his trunks. Crowley made himself comfortable, lying on his back, seemingly basking in the heat but really tuning his every sense to the fluctuating emotions of his angel. Finally, he shifted onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow.

“You going to relax before the next Apocalypse, angel?” he asked directly. “I can feel the anxiety radiating off you like water off a whatshisname.”

“A duck’s back, dear.” 

“Right. Bugger this.” Crowley stood up and made a show of stretching, arching his back and extending his arms above his head until the joints popped. Time to seize the initiative before the angel made a run for the door. “I’m gonna take my shorts off now, angel. Take it like a Principality and try not to discorporate, alright?”

And with that, he pulled down the Versace trunks in one fluid movement. Then, he lay face down on the bench, his head pillowed on one arm, the other dangling lazily off the side. He wriggled until he was comfortable, his legs parting slightly. Aziraphale gave a mewling sound at the sight of him and covered his mouth. 

“Angel,” Crowley said softly a few minutes later. “You’re allowed to look.” 

Yes, after six millennia, all those achingly lonely years, he could finally feast his eyes on this delectable creature. One darting glance and he was mesmerised. He drank in the sight: Crowley, naked and golden, harsh angles softened in the flickering candle light. Strong shoulders, long sinewy back and sharp hipbones leading to a firm flat ass. 

“A heart to love, and in that heart, courage to make love known,” Aziraphale murmured into the silence. “Oh, my dearest heart, you are the most beautiful creature I ever beheld.” Almost in a trance, he stood up, crossing over to his lover. It seemed a long way although it was only a matter of metres but Crowley’s eyes acted like a beacon, drawing him in. He sat down at his hip, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. It was hot, scalding hot, but it was the heat of the sun on the first day, not infernal torment. A bead of sweat glistened in the hollow of Crowley’s back and, greatly daring, he leaned down and lapped it with just the very tip of his tongue. 

“Angel!”

“Hush, dear,” he murmured with what could have been an impish grin. “Patience is a virtue.”

“Not into virtue, me. I like vice more.”

Crowley squirmed a little but then eased, apparently content to let the angel explore at his own pace. And, emboldened, Aziraphale allowed himself to touch, really touch his lover’s corporation for the first time in millennia. Even sitting close together on a bench or jostling shoulders in a crowded street had seemed dangerously risqué before. Now, just the feel of his fingers against the heat of his skin was electrifying. Shockingly intimate and yet so right; he wondered if this was how Adam and Eve had felt in the Garden when they discovered sexual touch for the first time. He traced his fingers lightly over his shoulders and back, worshipping every play of muscle, every plane laid before him as once he had worshipped in Heaven. Occasionally he would lean in to drift soft kisses here and there or lick at an enticing droplet of sweat. He suckled the angular bone of his left shoulder blade, eliciting another gasp, the muscles under his fingers dancing. There was a pattern of freckles which Crowley would probably deny he had; he kissed them, darting his tongue out and blowing cool air over them. Moving down, he traced along the fine line of his spine with his finger nail and then let his hands rest on the demon’s hipbones whilst they both caught their breath. 

“These hips, you know,” he murmured. “Most distracting. Rather naughty, in fact, the way you snap them when you walk. Or flounce, I should say.” He kissed one delectable hipbone before nibbling the area, causing the hips in question to writhe in a most delicious manner. 

At that moment, Crowley suddenly rolled over and sat up in one sinuous motion. Before Aziraphale could process the fact that the other was naked and aroused, Crowley hauled him in for scalding kisses. His lips were demanding and Aziraphale whined in pleasure, sparks flying across every nerve of his corporation, as he opened his mouth, returning the heat and the passion. 

“Hell, Heaven – whatever,” Crowley gasped barely coherently between deep searching kisses that left them both panting, “you’re hot, angel, so hot. Wanna see you, wanna touch you.” He bit his kiss-swollen lips and then grabbed his chin, demanding eye contact. “Lose the tartan for me.”

Immediately Aziraphale tensed, his anxiety returning in a flood of sensation. “I, I don’t think… That is…” He trailed off into silence, a hand going to cover his tartan lap. 

The moment hung there like a new Apocalypse and then Crowley was tugging him close, one hand taking the angel’s, the other running up and down his back soothingly. “Too fast again? S’okay. I can wait, Aziraphale. Until the stars I flung into space fall if I have to.”

“I do want this – all of this, I really do, dear. It’s just ...”

Crowley shifted slightly, weighing his words, something he wasn’t used to doing. “This is us, angel, you and me. No higher or lower power screwing with our heads, telling us what to think or feel. Just us.”

Aziraphale looked down at their linked hands and then met his gaze, seeing all Crowley’s love for him laid bare. With the same simple determination that had seen him face down Satan, he shook his head as if to clear it and squared his shoulders. “As it happens, dear,” he said, wetting his lips against the dryness in his throat, “I am feeling a trifle warm.” He stood up, his hand gripping Crowley’s like a lifeline. “Would you be so kind?”

In the silence of that moment, Crowley nodded. He sat up, his legs on either side of Aziraphale’s body while his hands rested on his hips, encircling him with his love. Accepting his nod of consent and with a soft kiss to his belly, he clicked the trunks away. 

For a moment, he paused to marvel in awe at the sight before him: the angel, simultaneously eager and nervous, standing in front of him, his pink-white skin sheened with sweat while his penis rose shyly to greet him. Crooning soft words of adoration, he drew him to lie on the bench, Crowley himself pressed against his side. 

Responding to every wanton moan and whimper, Crowley kissed and nuzzled and touched every piece of giving flesh as if it were the most precious thing in Her Creation: nipping at the sweet spot below his ear; nibbling at his collarbone; laving and suckling his pert nipples and darting his tongue time and again into his belly button. When Aziraphale bucked his hips in silent entreaty, he nuzzled at the delicate skin of his inner thigh, delighting in the silken texture like iris petals before finally turning attention to his erection, running a broad swathe from root to tip which had the angel writhing nearly off the bench. 

“Open your legs for me,” he said and Aziraphale flung his hand over his eyes but obeyed the request, splaying his legs wide. 

Hissing in pleasure, Crowley crawled on top of his lover, his legs between the angel’s. They both gasped as their corporations met, skin on skin, flush against each other for the first time in all those centuries. As the demon began to move, rocking their hips together, his cock pressing into Aziraphale’s, they kissed. They kissed and kissed deeper still, because the world they loved had not ended, because they had dined at the Ritz, because they were free from the shackles of obedience to powers they detested and because their love was transfiguring.

Aziraphale could feel his control slipping, the burning ache building in his groin. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he canted his hips, pushing up against Crowley, grabbing hold of the demon’s hips hard enough to bruise to pull him in closer, harder. 

And then he was tipping over the edge, his love’s name torn from his lips. No choirs of angels accompanied his bliss, just communion, to him just as holy, with the being he loved. A moment later he heard Crowley cry out too and he rained tender kisses over his beloved’s face, soft like angel feathers. 

Eventually and with a sinuous stretch, Crowley shifted them, lying on his back with Aziraphale nestled close; the angel was a little shy now and he rubbed his arm soothingly. He lifted his chin to kiss him chastely, pouring all his love into the simple gesture. “I love you, angel.”

“I love you too, my dearest.” Aziraphale nuzzled closer, skimming his fingers lightly over his nipple. 

The two of them drifted lazily in a haze of contentment, occasionally kissing, occasionally conversing sleepily about moments they had shared. The peace, however, was shattered after about half an hour when Aziraphale’s tummy gave an impatient growl. Crowley laughed and snaked his hand round to tickle the soft expanse of his belly, the angel only half-heartedly stopping him.

“It’s not my fault I missed lunch, you deplorable demon,” Aziraphale pouted. 

Crowley huffed a put-upon sigh. “Come on then, angel,” he said, pulling them to their feet and miracling towels to wrap round their waists. “Can I tempt you to a spot of Afternoon Tea?”

As the door closed behind them, Crowley clicked his fingers and Neptune was suddenly sporting a pair of (stylish) tartan trunks.


End file.
